


The Coffee Drabbles

by nixwilliams



Series: Five Times (Supernatural) [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-01
Updated: 2006-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:14:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24539074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nixwilliams/pseuds/nixwilliams
Summary: He used to drink his coffee milky, with three sugars. Back when ‘John’ meant ‘guy next door’, and ‘like the rifle’ was still vaguely amusing.
Relationships: John Winchester/Mary Winchester
Series: Five Times (Supernatural) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1773520
Kudos: 2





	The Coffee Drabbles

1.

He used to drink his coffee milky, with three sugars. Back when ‘John’ meant ‘guy next door’, and ‘like the rifle’ was still vaguely amusing. Mary had grinned, saying, “If you’re trying to impress me, drink it straight.” He told her he needed _one_ vice to make himself interesting, and since he didn’t smoke it would have to be caffeine and sugar. Besides, he liked his coffee this way – smooth, strong and sweet. Mary laughed outright then, and slapped his arm.  
  
A few months after the wedding he was taking his coffee black, although he’d never made that decision.  
  


2.  
  
He used to drink his coffee with three sugars, black. Back when he knew that people died _every day_ , but nightscratching on the window was a tree in the wind. Back when ‘revenge’ tangled briefly in flickering thoughts of ‘God’, ‘corps’ and ‘country’, but ‘family’ remained untainted. When the cracklepop of fire, without the sickening fumes from kerosene or gas, felt warm and comforting.  
  
He finally, _finally_ got Sammy to sleep and stood at the kitchenette, pistol in one hand, simply forgetting the last spoonful (or miscounting, or slipping up). His tongue – drunkennumb with grief – couldn’t tell the difference.  
  


3.  
  
He used to drink his coffee strong and black, with two heaped spoons of sugar. Back when he sharpened the knives, scoured the papers, went to the supermarket, checked out the cemetery, and picked up the kids from school. If he spilt sugar on the bench, Dean and Sammy would lick their fingers and pick the grains up one by one.  
  
“Can I have an icecream cake for my birthday?”  
  
John ruffled Sammy’s hair, silently calculating the quarters in the truck’s ashtray, then hefted the sugar bowl and peered into the coffee jar. Three teaspoons each per day, he decided.  
  


4.  
  
He used to drink his coffee black, with one sugar. Back when the ritual covered the count to ten before he said to Sam whatever the fuck needed saying. Back when Sam’s glare and Dean’s silence – instant and aching – made it hard to breathe. When ‘shut up’ and ‘that’s an order’ wound silenttight around his chest, and ‘don’t come back’ stuck like rope in his teeth.  
  
When the door slammed on Sam’s shadow, and Dean had melted after his brother, John made cup after cup, strong and sugarless. Tried to wash and burn away the words, purify his mouth.  
  


5.  
  
He used to drink his coffee tall and black, and extra strong. Back when Dean was up before him, waking him with Styrofoam cups, a bag of food and a halo of backlit hair. Back when the face of the highway hit his cheeks with sunglare and promises, when freedom and revenge tangled up in the wheels.  
  
Then one day Dean wasn’t there, and John didn’t bother with coffee. Two days later, the grip on the back of his skull loosened, and he didn’t reach for the painkillers first thing. Dean wasn’t there, and John thought about taking up smoking.

**Author's Note:**

> Re-posted from DW. From a discussion with [hope](/users/hope/).


End file.
